


Look, It's Nearly Time for a Morning Can of Whoop-ass

by Atqueinstupracaballum



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Childermass is so done, Crack?, Enemies With Benefits, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Mirrors, Morning After, crack or no crack it's a drabble, take it, take it internet, who can blame him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24709129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atqueinstupracaballum/pseuds/Atqueinstupracaballum
Summary: Lascelles? Self-absorbed? Vain? impossible.
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Look, It's Nearly Time for a Morning Can of Whoop-ass

**Author's Note:**

> This little scene came to me while reading [this wonderful fic.](24661678)

Childermass woke to the sound of Lascelles getting out of his bed with an ungentlemanly grunt. Without making it known to the freshly railed pale sod, Childermass watched under his lashes as said sod went about getting dressed for the morning. Lascelles' skin was littered with all sorts of pleasantries from previous activities. Nail marks ran jaggedly over his shoulders, snaking down his torso in red swipes, the purple shadow of teeth and finger imprints decorated his slim, long neck, and scattered themselves over other more intimate expanses. His lips were flushed and a little bloody still from his own teeth slicing carelessly through the flesh in the heat of pleasure. In this bare and bruised state, in Childermass' opinion, he was -within reason- tolerable!

On the floor, all of their clothes were scattered. It was rather impressive, Childermass thought idly, just how far you can launch an undershirt when in the right mindset. Lascelles, on the other hand, did not seem to appreciate the feat as much, if the grunts and quiet curses exiting his mouth were any indications. All the while his delicate, thin, oh so precious work deprived hands roamed the floor hither and thither, extra careful not to accidentally _soil_ themselves by brushing any of Childermass' clothes.

"Bastard, good for nothing...," was at one point muttered with a ruefulness that forced Childermass to smother a smile down. Bold words for a man that had been shaking under him, demanding for him to ' _put your cock in me already- ah- oh you scoundrel- ah!'_ but a few hours ago. 

It was rather fascinating, watching Henry dress. Every movement reeked of that infuriating pompousness, the stiff yet syrupy flow of muscles as they took their own sweet time to make him look as spotless as ever. That being said, Childermass found it rather obvious to see that Lascelles was unaccustomed to dressing himself from head to toe in such a manner. He could hardly keep up the facade of slumber as the tall, deplorable man cursed at his millions of buttons and warred viciously against his cravat -and lost-. At last, the show came to an end once he had slipped his fashionable, many flapped and caped greatcoat on. Childermass waited expectantly for Lascelles to toss one last glare back to him before leaving the room, as was often the case. But no, Lascelles seemed to have completely disregarded his existence, for he went not to the door, but to Childermass' mirror. 

Here he began fiddling with his rather mused hair, turning his head this way and that, eyeing every single pore he possessed to make sure nothing was out of place. Of course, he was displeased to find his scratched lip. 

"There's nothing to be done for it," he muttered, touching the small scab with a look of utmost displeasure. According to his expression, the cut had trespassed his private property and would soon be hearing from all of his lawyers. 

Now, Childermass was sure, the skinny devil would leave, it was the only thing left to do. But no, _no_ , that would make his life to easy and make Lascelles to normal. Instead of taking his leave, he stayed right where he was, peering into the mirror, fiddling with this and that, or simply _admiring._

When he had been but a wee pit pocketing lad Childermass had watched many a time as his mother beat away at any street rat or leech attempting to steal what they had already stollen. She would take a broom, or whatever else was long, sturdy, hard, and effective, and quite literally sweep their bruised, yelping asses out of the vicinity. As he lay there, forced to breathe the same air as his enemy for far too long, subjected to the dull torment of watching said enemy do some sort of queer narcissistic mating jig with himself in _his_ mirror, Childermass thought about those specific memories rather vividly. 

How long passed in this manner? Childermass had no clue, but if he was forced to make an estimation, retrospectively he would have said somewhere between three days and twenty centuries. He was hungry, sore, his space was being invaded, and he was no longer amused by his guest's stupidity, in essence: 100% done with the bullshit being served to him. So, at last, seeing that if he did nothing Lascelles might just stand there admiring himself forever, his patience snapped. With a smile akin only to the devil, he spoke very, very calmly.

"I will give _Your Almighty Fucking Highness_ exactly ten seconds to remove himself and his _extraordinary_ vanity from my room in all of its entirety, **_do you unde_ _rstand_?**" At once, over the delightful sound of Henry Lascelles' offended hisses, the countdown began in his head. 


End file.
